Patently False
by Raggedy Dama
Summary: John glanced over at Sherlock, the amused glint in his eye told him that he was quite aware of his predicament and just what exactly had the good doctor so innocently become part of?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter one: Impetuous**

_"What you need to do is arrive tomorrow with a fiancé."_

_"What?" Sherlock frowned, confused. Had his brother not understood what he had been telling him all along? "How could I-? Who-?"_

_Mycroft smiled his trade mark smile and nodded toward the other man in the room. "John will be your fiancé."_

_John gaped at the man who was the British Government, while Sherlock expressed the doctor's fears more forcibly. "For God's sake, Mycroft, have you run mad?"_

_"Not at all." came the measured reply. "If you will all think about it, you will see that it is the perfect solution."_

_"I see that it is perfect insanity," John retorted, once he was sure he's recovered his speaking ability. "If you think that I am going to become engaged to this...this..." man he wanted to say, but the detective beat him to it._

_Sherlock looked at him, his eyes sparkling dangerously. "To this_ what_?"_

* * *

Just as John finished pouring hot water into his mug, he heard a beautiful melody of strings. His heart filled with emotion as he heard the wondrous tune spilled out into the air of 221B by only a bow gliding graciously across strings. To John, it was more than a song. It was a sign. A sign that a part of his old life was back and hopefully did not intend to fade away again.

Three years after The Fall, two, after his last appointment with Ella, and a month after Sherlock Holmes' dramatic return. The violin was merely a constant, that had always accompanied his mad man of a flat mate. But with time it had become so much more.

John could clearly remember the day he first met the detective and the quite blunt question on his opinion about the musical instrument. Sooner, rather than later, the doctor found out another few perks that had the tiniest potential to bother him. Such things as: storing body parts in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave, having a stash of presumably illegal narcotics on the premises, shooting up a smiley face on the wall when bored, acting as if he had a God-given right to use John's belongings, pissing off the police to the point that they would fake drug busts as retaliation, rudeness of both the blatant and snarky varieties... But according to Sherlock, the violin surely was an annoying habit. And now it was back. His closest and dearest friend was back.

When he left the kitchen, John found Sherlock standing by the window in their living room, back turned and his elegant form moving fluidly with the instrument.

The good doctor swiftly made his way to his armchair, not wanting to disturb the man who was completely launched in music. Whether or not his flat mate had noticed his presence, the music did not stop. The beautiful music that was procuring from his delicate fingers on the wooden neck. There's a grace and a sense of refinement in the wrist angle in the way Sherlock held the violin. Firm, but relaxed. Steady, but easy.

A sigh of content escaped John and he took a sip from his mug of tea. This was comfortable. A word he never thought he would use to describe his time spent with the detective.

"Did you go to the dentist, John?" the question struck him by surprise as he had not realised that the man had stopped playing. By now Sherlock had his violin sat in its respectable place and was walking in the direction of the mantlepiece.

"Yea." John cleared his throat, recovering from his frenzy. "I did."

"And did he find out what you had?" The detective also sat onto his usual spot, across from the doctor and regarded him with a curious look, that was obviously forced.

The man was most naturally aware of the whole situation and could unmistakably dictate a detailed description of the events that had taken place in his absence. John, being ever the sensual man, decided to spare his flat mate from the tedious experience of the whole_ 'How was your day? ...Fine and how was yours?'_

"Very nearly." he answered instead, lifting the cup to his lips, so as to hide the grin, which was surely about to form on his face.

"How so?" Sherlock raised a brow at him. Confused...hardly. Intrigued, no...just interested.

"Well, I had $3.40 and he charged me $3.00."

"How very blunt of him." The detective agreed and clicked his tongue in mock offence.

"You're saying."

They sat like that for another few seconds before looking up at each other. Their eyes met and simultaneously, they broke into a fit of shameless giggles.

This was comfortable and John was terrified, still not entirely used to the idea of Sherlock in the flat, Sherlock very much alive, Sherlock back in his life.

Even the silence that followed their unretained laughter was comfortable, not tense or awkward. Not the 'I-have-nothing-in-general-with-this-man-anymore' kind of silence, but the knowing and understanding type, the idyllic type of wordlessness. When not a word ought to be said in order to make up for anything.

"That was..." John cleared his throat, his voice serious, "That was nice."

Did he mean the banter or the song? He was not quite sure himself, while Sherlock, apparently was.

"Johann Sebastian Bach." The detective replied, the corner of his mouth rising into a half smile. "Thank you."

John pursed his thin mouth into a tight line. Somehow he could feel the atmosphere change all at once. Not that it was charged with an unexpected flood of negativity, the more accurate would be to say that just a theme had been brought up, which had been diligently avoided by both of them.

What was he to say now? Was he to ignore and forget? Should he possibly make a desultory comment about the weather and commit their relationship into returning to its previous, tessellated state? No, he was not going to step back now. Not really.

"I'm glad you're back." John whispered into the twilit of the room, his eyes trained solidly on his flat mate's. And he did not miss the momentum of sheer surprise, then relief and acceptance passing over Sherlock's face.

They kept this contact going, until the detective broke it with a small warm smile grazing his lips. He knew that this was sincere and this was _comfortable_. This was the right way and this was-

"How's Mary?" the question rang sonorously and rather lightly, far too lightly for John's liking. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking this through better. He was reminded of the important revelation he was yet to make.

Perhaps it had not been wise to wait for the last minute to mention about the plans he had made with Mary, concerning their future. Perhaps not.

"Umm, about that..." John scratched the back of his ear uneasily. "Sherlock, I think we need to _ta_-"

And there he was cut off by a force that undoubtedly found it amusing to meddle with their heads or care to ring the doorbell, for the matter.

It rang once, but demandingly so. Not a client then. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't bother, she had the keys...It couldn't be Lestrade either, not at such an hour.

John could practically feel the unrealistic comfortableness begin to languidly float away from him. For that he was sure.

* * *

_"Just tell him the fellow cried off." The good doctor suggested callously. "That will put an end to the matter. It is quite believable. If your spectacle tonight is any indication, you would give any man an adequate reason to get out of an engagement."_

_Sherlock swung on him. "You have the gall to blame me for what happened tonight? Anyway, my fiancé is, not the sort of man who would_ 'cry off' _an engagement as you so vulgarly put it."_

_John let out a bark of laughter. "That's rich. Considering your fiancé exists only in your imagination. I would imagine that he would do anything you wish. Maybe even fetch your bloody phone for you, when it's a foots distance away."_

_The detective opened his mouth to say something presumably rude, but Mycroft chose to interfere._

_"What my dear brother means to say is," he explained in a calm voice. "that the sort of man I have told our grandfather he is, would never do such an ungentlemanly thing."_

_The poshly clothed man straightened his posture, satisfied that he had got John's attention and was able to give this conversation a decent turn. More or less._

_"As I've already said, grandfather is still in ill health, and the doctor says not to disturb him. He says it is a miracle that he hasn't gone already. So me and mother kept putting him off about when Mr. Lassiter and you were going to come to Chevington."_

_"Mr. Lassiter?" Sherlock asked in puzzlement._

_"Your fiancé." Mycroft replied curtly._

_"Ah, yes, of course."_

_"Would you let him get on with the story, John?" asked Mycroft gently. "I assure you that it won't affect you in any way and will be temporary, of course."_

* * *

John heaved out a sigh, running his fingers through his short blond hair. He should have known better than to agree to participate in this...affair. What was he thinking? Giving the Holmes brothers his stomp of approval. He was quite embarrassed to admit that it had taken Sherlock less than ten minutes to convince him to go with him. The manipulative bastard... Pulling off the same 'could be dangerous' card. Of course _anything_ that had to do with Sherlock was either dangerous or nothing at all.

However, it seemed like the former soldier was not the only one who was troubled with something. John proceeded to watch the detective pace around the room, in what one would call, a restless manner, stop abruptly, open his mouth as if to say something, close it and then start pacing again.

Watson was the most patient human being ever, for willingly putting up with Sherlock every day, but at the moment, he was certain that even he would not last through another round of a ridiculously tall, sulking flat mate, marching on and about in front of him.

"When?" the said man turned to him sharply and asked quite unceremoniously, catching the doctor off guard.

"What do you me-"

"_When_ have you decided to get engaged to Mary and _when_ did you intend to tell me about it?"

John sighed again. "I...don't really remember. It just sort of happened."

"Happened." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully in response.

"Yes. Maybe it was last week. Maybe last month. It does not matter." the doctor said unsympathetically, shooting the other man a glare. "And quit acting clueless with me. I bet you have known it all along. Just asking it now, to irritate me."

And John had to bite the inside of his cheek, to suppress himself from cursing aloud. The open and anguished expression that he found on the detective's face was...let's just say it had pierced deep into his soul and he would not forget the image of it, any time soon. If ever.

"Hey, look..." he started, more softly now. "I'm sorry, I should have told you about this earlier, it's just...I suppose I just forgot."

"It's fine." Sherlock sniffed and waved off his explanation. "It's not your responsibility or precaution to keep me informed about your personal life."

"Sherlock that's not what I..."

"But will you _have_ to move out?" the detective asked brokenly, looking at him expectantly, with those wide stormy blue eyes, just a glint of hope mirroring in them. John Watson had never hated himself in his life, more that he did at the moment.

"I'm afraid so." he said quietly, lowering his head almost guiltily. And he did not dare to say anything else. He was perplexed in the silence between them, because even now it was comfortable. The both men were obviously upset, a million things being left unsaid, but the silence spoke so many more things. Things that words could not express. They were silent, but they understood.

"You can not come with me to Chevington." Sherlock stated at last, snapping the doctor out of his thoughts.

"Wha- Why the hell not?"

"Because you can't." the detective told him firmly and gave him an encouraging smile. "This obviously means a lot to you and I can not... will not attempt to take you away from this. I understand. You must stay."

"No." John shook his head stubbornly. He did not deliberately suffer through all of their ludicrous tales that were supposed to make perfect sense, to back away now.

"You mean a lot to me too."

"John..."

"Mary will understand. Besides it's only for a few days right?" John grinned up at the taller man. "We give them a good old performance to go by and come straight back. And I'll hear none of it anymore. Deal?"

Sherlock's smirk could almost reach his ears.

"Deal."

**AN: Hello, dear friends. I'm back with another Sherlock fic, but I must warn you that I will not be able to update this in a regular frequency.**

**So I know that the idea has been used many many many times before and I'm only presenting you a version of mine. The Johnlock will appear in the coming chapters, if that's what you're wondering. I have not planned out the ending yet...the whole thing with a grandfather in Chevington, Lassiter and the idea in general were inspired by a work by the amazing Candace Camp. This is all for now. Peace.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated**.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter two: Indiscreet**

_This was a bad, bad idea._

John's mind raced with various thoughts as he stared out of the cab window, occasionally glancing at his companion. If there ever had been a time, when the good doctor doubted that his loyalty and unquestionable trust could throw him into an acrimonious situation, then this must be it. An unsettling feeling deep in the pit of his stomach hinted that he was soon to near a turning point, the appearance of which was already inevitable and promised to have a vital effect on him.

It's not that he was being forcefully drugged into this. No. Needless to say that he was the one to refuse his friend's thoughtful offer to withdraw from this affair, in the first place. However, now, being only a fifteen minutes ride away from the Holmes' Manor and the fate that was awaiting him there, had naturally brought a wave of anxiety over John.

Faking an identity for a case was one thing, but pretending to be his genius of a flat mate's significant other in front of the said man's whole household, which most likely consisted of people, no less observant and intelligent than the detective himself, was a thing absolutely incomparable with the first one! _Oh, such a bad idea._ He screwed his eyes shut and wondered what were his chances to die if he hit his head against the glassy surface enough times.

Controversially his flat mate seemed rather calm and in a stable position over everything and anything that was to happen. However, that did not sooth John's nerves at all. After they had had another roaring argument about twenty seconds before walking out of the flat, they wisely decided upon not discussing anything that had to do with their 'upcoming parade' until they have arrived. But now John wondered if it really was a clever idea. Looking from this angle, there were still a bunch of things that were left unresolved and unsettled, making the good doctor feel even more troubled.

For example, they did not talk or agree on the range of their behavior, thus leaving the most pressing matter in an amorphous state. How were they supposed to play this out?

Counting that Sherlock did not even bother to mention anything about the manner or diversity of their attitude, John took it as that no one would expect them to bill or coo. Not probing much, he could tell that that was not the sort of behavior encouraged by people of the detective's station in life. But that was fine, as even engaged couples were usually chaperoned and stayed a chaste distance from each other. There were none of the public hand holding or kisses such...and if there were a kiss or embrace exchanged, it was usually done in secret. John wondered if he would have to do any of those things with Sherlock...

No. Of course, not. John cleared his throat automatically, finding it disturbing that the mental image of his flat mate engaged in such activities could so easily get to him.

However, he soon carried on with his musings, they would be expected to be together a lot of the time, and it would probably be thought odd if they did not take a few quiet walks alone together. He remembered the sort of warm glances that had once been exchanged between his sister and Clara. There had been something in Clara's eyes when she looked at his future wife, that even now, when he thought about it, made a faint flush rise in John's cheeks. She had not been crude, but seeing her, no one would have mistaken as to her feelings for Harry. Even John Watson, the long time bachelor and avowed opponent of marriage, had breathed a few wistful sighs over those looks.

Were they supposed to share those same looks? To show some mutual connection that did not exist between them? It was that universal sort of signal- the whispers, with heads close together, the sighs, the looks across a roomful of people- that let everyone know that a couple was in love, and an engaged couple who never indulged in such behavior would look a trifle odd.

Maybe he was just making an over fuse about this. He should probably stop contemplating about such things before his flatmate drawled at him to shut up and complain about his thoughts being too loud.

Still, as long as the two of them maintained that they were engaged, who would have the gal to dispute them? Right? They might be labeled cold, and someone as suspicious as Sherlock's aunt(Aunt Beryl if being precise, as the detective had taken great care of describing her to him, not missing out a single reason why he loathed the woman with every aspect of his non existent heart) might wonder about them, but the sheer audacity of pretending should be enough, he thought, to convince even that woman, that they were telling the truth.

Mycroft's scheme made sense... in an outlandish Holmesian way. Once the man talked John out of his stubborn refusal, surely John would see the advantages of spending a mellifluous week away from London for nothing more difficult than living in a nice house and pretending not to want to strangle anyone with the initials 'SH'. And surely John could endure Sherlock's presence, for the same length of time, knowing that it would ease his grandfather's mind... not to mention, put out Aunt Beryl's nose out of joint.

The idea brought an unexpected wave of satisfaction over the good doctor and despite his rather foul mood, he let his mouth twitch into a tight smile. Sherlock, most likely taken off guard by his friend's suddenly enraptured face expression, dared( and he dared always) to bring up the issue that neither were quite willing to talk about.

"Not having second thoughts?" he asked gently, though not wholly hiding the teasing tone. "Not wondering if your course is less than honorable... for a straight man? Or that this will somehow endanger your predicament with Mary?"

"Don't be absurd." This time John said boldly, managing to keep the tremor out of his voice, willing to whip that arrogant look from the detective's face. "Actually I would think,_ you_ should be the one having doubts."

"Oh really?"

"Naturally. Letting me have access to the treasures of Chevington Park... my hands are already itching for an ashtray."

Sherlock gave a throaty chuckle before responding. "Even you would not be so stupid as to steal something, when it would be obvious who had done it. Not when I could identify you."

"As what?" the doctor asked with a snort. "Mr. Lassiter, was it?"

At that, Sherlock's eyes flew to John's, startled.

"That's right." he went on. "You don't even know my name, do you?"

The detective slowly shook his head a negative.

"Well, that's fine. I don't either."

"But... is it not 'John'?" Sherlock almost spluttered.

"Yes... _my_ first name."

"_Your_ first name! But I thought Mycroft meant your last name. What is your surname, then?"

"Why, Lassiter- what else?"

The detective rolled his eyes but smirked nontheless, their disagreement back at Baker Street now long forgotten. John sighed quietly, in relief or disappointment, he couldn't tell himself. At least the bickering would keep them occupied for the remaining of the journey.

"Sherlock, seriously though." he said after a while, shifting a little in his seat so that he's facing the detective a little more. "I have absolutely no idea what I am supposed to do or who I am. Tell me...i don't know, where do I live? How do I spend my time or something?"

Sherlock noded, acknowladging the question and looking up at John with a radiant smile, began to explain.

"You live in London. Your parents have a small estate in Cotswolds. You are a gentleman of leisure, and you write."

"I what?" his expression turned pained. "I really hope you don't mean poetry."

"Oh no. You are a very scholary gentleman. You are interested in ancient history, particularyly the Romans. You have written several articles and are working on a book."

"Good God, you mean I will be expected to converse on the subject?" John said incredulously.

"Ah, no." Sherlock assured him airily. "Grandfather dislikes scholary subjects. I just thought it sounded like an admirable thing to be interested in."

The good doctor grimaced and went on. "All right. Now, what else should I know about this paragon?"

"You are a most kind and well-mannered man- there is where you will need to work on your role." the indignant cough that followed that statement may or may not have been on purpose. "Mr. Lassiter would never dream of wrestling a poor defenseless consulting detective to the ground... or going around the house and attempting to steal ashtrays."

"Sounds like a dull dog to me." John replied sardonically, keeping up with the detective's provoking style.

"He is not!" Sherlock huffed and took such a defensive stance, that one would thing Mr. Lassiter truly existed and was the man's soon to be husband. "He is a superior gentleman."

"Well, your description makes me wonder why any man would want to marry him."

"You obviously have no understanding of men, my friend."

John heaved out a fake, sad sigh. "So, I've been told."

And as two seconds later the two flat mates erupted into a loud fit of guffaws, John had a moment of epiphany. One, he should probably apologize to the detective for describing his antics as 'mad' regularly during their daily basis, as the good doctor was nothing less than mad himself, if not more.

Second, it had finally dawned on him as to what kind of lengths he was willing to go for his lithe friend. And without a second thought at that. No wonder half of London found the platonic orientation of their friendship unbelievable and highly amusing.

At the moment the car pulled to a halt in front of a house. John pushed open the door first and stepped out with Sherlock following him.

Before either of them moved from that spot, the good doctor could feel the air being knocked out of his lungs as he noticed Sherlock look up at the venerable old house, with warm affection on his face. So much for someone who did not understand trivial human emotions, he thought.

John followed his gaze. It was a graceful house, built in the shape of the letter E, and the white of its native stone gave it a warmth that was enhanced by the lights that blazed beside the massive front doors, and poured out the windows.

Sherlock belatedly noticed the multitude of lights. He had been hoping that his family would have given up on him and already gone to bed, so that he and John would not have to face all of them now. Obviously that was not the case.

As if to emphasize that fact, the double front doors were opened wide and a rotund man dressed in sober black came rushing down the wide stone steps toward them, a grin stretching across his face.

"Mr. Holmes!" he cried. "It's wonderful to see you."

"Purdle." Sherlock pronounced carefully, shaking the man's eager hand. "You shouldn't have waited up."

"As if I could go on to bed, not knowing where you were and leave you here to be greeted by the footmen." the beaming man looked affronted by the idea.

"No." Sherlock agreed. "I can see you could not." He turned toward John with a pleasant smile on his face. "Dear? Do come here and meet Purdle. He is the butler, and has been running all our lives for years. Purdle, this is Mr. Lassiter. He-"

"Yes, yes. I know!" He grinned broadly at Sherlock's companion. "Your brother told us all about him. Congratulations, sir. Much happiness, sir. 'Tis a wonderful thing."

And before John could even begin to feel uncomfortable or uneasy, a long arm snaked its way around his shoulders, completely baffling him for moment.

"He is, isn't he?" The owner of the said arm, asked with a wink and an uncharacteristically soft note in his voice. _That bastard..._ Fine thing that John was not one to get easily scared off. He immediately reacted by pressing a bit closer to the detective and answering with a wiggle of his brow. Wondering only a second later, if couples did actually do such things in a normal basis and whether their actions would appear absolutely untrue and false.

"Nah, always such a sweetheart." He said instead. "You are."

The butler at first looked at him then at Sherlock and then once again broke into a wide smile.

"Wonderful." he repeated. " And I must say that older Holmes is very happy. The news has picked him right up. He's looking forward to seeing you, too, though I'm sure that comes as no surprise to you. He wanted to stay up to greet you himself when you came in, but the draft, the doctor gave him put him right to sleep after supper. The doctor said it was too much excitement for him and..."

John eyed the butler in fascination as he ushered them up the steps and into the house, talking without ceasing. He had never seen a butler quite like this... not that he's ever seen one, but Purdle was beaming and chattering like a magpie. Of course, he reminded himself, he might have known that nothing and no one connected to Sherlock Holmes would be normal.

They stopped suddenly as the butler excused himself and hurried to speak a few words with the chef and so John had a brief moment to exchange a look with the detective and mutter quietly.

"_Dear_?" he repeated his friend's endearing word from earlier with a raised brow and an expectant look.

"_Sweetheart_?" Sherlock challenged back with a smug grin and looking very much satisfied with himself.

John shrugged and smiled back. "Touché."

"It looks as though everyone is still up." Sherlock said, a little questioningly, as Purdle returned and swept them through the wide front hall.

"Oh, yes. The whole family." he agreed not noticing the way Sherlock's face fell. "Well, except, the young master, of course."

"Anthony?" Sherlock named his young cousin, who at eleven was probably the closest to him of anyone in his family.

"Yes. He retired early this evening."

"Anthony?" Sherlock asked again in disbelief. His cousin was the liveliest of souls, always getting into mischief or the other. He would be the last person he could imagine going to bed before everyone else, especially when he was expected tonight. "Is he sick?"

"Oh, no, sir. He's well. He's been retiring earlier the past few months. Since, um, Mrs. Elliot came to visit."

"Ah." It was clear to him now. Anthony abhorred Aunt Beryl, perhaps even more than Sherlock did. She always seized every opportunity to lecture the boy about his duties.

"Precisely. No doubt you will see him soon enough."

"Yes, I am sure, I will." He was certain that Anthony was not asleep; he would slip down the hall to his room once the others were in bed.

"Here we are." Purdle stopped before a double set of closed doors, which the detective knew led into a blue drawing room, a large, formal room that was rarely used by his grandfather. Sherlock was sure it was by Aunt Beryl's command that it was used now.

He threw a check-over glance at his flat mate and it did not go unnoticed that the good doctor was more than nervous about their current situation.

Purdle stepped inside the room, addressing someone they could not see yet. "Sherlock Holmes has arrived."

He stepped aside for them to enter. John drew a deep breath and looked up into Sherlock's face. He smiled down at the shorter man, transforming his harsh lines of face into handsomeness and startling the doctor so that for an instant he could not move. Then he realized that Sherlock was probably assuming a lover-like expression for their charade. He tried to adjust his face into the same sort of look, but his smile faded as soon as the detective took hold of his right hand and tucked it into the crook of his own arm.

"Sher- What are you-"

The detective chuckled and whispered. "My good doctor. In your rush to fool my family, you seem to have forgotten one other little thing besides your name. A fiancé, you know, has certain expectations."

"Right..." John cleared his throat. "What now?"

"Do live up, John. Maybe a bit less than discreet?"

"Less?"

"Yes."

"Indiscreet than."

"Whatever you like, fiancé."

With those teasing words which held the whole situation in more or less a chaste and light state, they also entered the room, mindful, yet oblivious to what was awaiting them there.

**AN: In all honesty, I have no idea where I am going with this story. Since it's going to include Johnlock eventually, I also want to make it a slow build relationship. So no actual romance in the first few chapters. You can now sit back and enjoy a wee bit of our boys being adorably clueless and awkward around each other.**

**Tell me if I should actually continue working on this fic, 'cause as I've mentioned before I don't have much spare time.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock**

**or any of the characters from the show.**

**Chapter three: The good evening**

They stepped inside the room and stopped abruptly. It seemed as if the room were filled with people, and every eye was on them. For a moment the faces were an unrecognizable blur. Everyone in the room froze where they were, staring at Sherlock and John.

Then the multitude of faces resolved into several distinct people, and much to John's relief he was immediately able to spot the ever elegant figure of Mycroft Holmes standing beside an armchair, that was currently occupied by a woman. She was the infamous Mother Holmes and there was no mistaking of it. Even from the other side of the room, the good doctor could practically feel the vibrancy of her posture, which was screaming at him: grace, power, leadership, determination. And right from the beginning he realized that Diana Holmes was not someone to mess with, and if the torrent of piercing looks from the man's other relatives wasn't motivating enough, then the sharp and penetrating glance from her seemed to cut through him at once.

John shifted from one foot to another. He found, faced by this devastating matter of factness, an inability to utter a plea for help to Sherlock, who yet again seemed or rather pretended to seem unaffected by the whole situation. But in spite of being excruciatingly numbed from dread and downright stressed, he was also overwhelmed with an immense gratitude towards the Holmes brothers, for having enough decency so as to inform their mother about their severe plan to befool the inhabitants of the manor. John doubted he would have even been able to convince the shrewd woman that his name was 'Lassiter'.

A light squeeze of his hand broke the unpleasant string of John's thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock and found the man regarding him with the _we both know what's really going on here_ expression and reluctantly and quite slowly he nodded in response. The detective gave him another assuring pat on the shoulder and stirred them both further into the room. While his companion was outrageously bigoted with the set of circumstances and seemed eager to bolt out and away from that place, Sherlock took his time to notice(observe) the presence of other people too, since their way lay through a repellent looking group of women(mostly).

The two young women from that company were Aunt Beryl's daughters, Amanda and Kitty. They had fair, painfully curled blind hair and vague-colored eyes that seemed to pop out of their heads. Kitty was plump, and Amanda was as thin as a stick, but both were incessant gossips and gigglers, and Sherlock was usually bored to death by their company within five minutes.

Aunt Beryl, with the same eyes and fair hair, though starting to go gray, as her daughters, was seated in one of the wing-back chairs, near the fire, a shawl thrown around her shoulders to ward off the chill to which the low neckline if her evening dress exposed her.

The other older woman- though it took a second longer to realize that she did not belong to the same generation as Aunt Beryl's daughters, was Aunt Lydia. Lydia was possessed of a creamy complexation upon which much care and many unguents were lavished, and her figure was as slender as if she had never borne a child. With her blue eyes, she was still one of the reigning beauties of London, and no one who did not know her, would have guessed that she could have a son who was eleven years old. She was staring at Sherlock and John as if she had never seen Sherlock before. Frankly speaking, John was quite unnerved by the odd and slightly pompous attitude of his friend's aunt. Then again maybe he was the one who seemed out of place and ludicrous...

These four women Sherlock had expected to find at Chevington Park, though he had hoped that Aunt Beryl and her daughters would have gone on to bed by the time he arrived. What he had not expected to find here were the three men: his cousin Bertram, Aunt Beryl's oldest son and one of the leading dandies of London, as well as two young men whom he had never seen before in his life.

"Aunt Lydia." Sherlock said smiling(the less fake smile John knew) and starting toward his aunt with outstretched arms.

"Dear boy." Lydia murmured, rising to her feet and reaching out to enfold her nephew in a graceful hug, all the while staring at John with a peculiar look on her face.

"Sherlock." Aunt Beryl rose ponderously, though she did not extend her arms for a similar hug.

Sherlock semi-bowed to her politely, exchanging greetings with his aunt and cousins. His gaze flickered curiously toward the two strangers, but he hurried on, eager to get his aunt lying over with. Sherlock turned toward John, holding out his hand toward him. To his relief, the good doctor started toward him with alacrity. At the moment, the detective realized with amazement, that he looked every inch the gentleman...and quite handsome too. Amanda and Kitty were gazing at them with their mouths open.

Sherlock drew breath to introduce John, but before he could speak, Aunt Lydia flashed one of her sparkling smiles at John and walked past Sherlock, saying brightly. "No, you've no need to tell us, Sherlock. We all know that this must be your _husband_."

His aunt's words were followed by a complete silence. Sherlock gaped at Lydia. Aunt Beryl's shrewd eyes flickered from Sherlock's stupefied face to John's, who in his turn tried not to notice Mycroft lean down and whisper something into Mrs. Holmes' ear.

"How do you do, Mr. Lassiter?" Lydia went on, as if she had said nothing out of ordinary. "I am Viscountess Marbridge. Sherlock's aunt."

The good doctor recovered well, smiling at the Viscountess and giving her an excellent bow.

"How do you do my lady? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He turned toward Sherlock, and a look of pure pride was flashing from the detective's eyes. For some reason, the man had been certain that maneuvering John into a similar situation would be unwise if not fatal for them. But so far, the good doctor was doing splendidly. There was no arguing about that.

Lydia, too, looked at Sherlock. "Oh dear," she said pouting prettily. "I hope I haven't completely spoiled your surprise."

"Oh. No, of course not." Sherlock responded faintly.

Lydia started across the room toward them. John, smiling warmly up at the detective, curled his hand around Sherlock's wrist and squeezed it in a most un-lover-like grip. Arching close to the ridiculously tall man's ear, he all but hissed.

"What the devil do you think you're doing? Whatever you hope to trap me into, I promise you, it won't work!"

The detective couldn't control the irritation that flashed over his features. "I have no idea what's going on." he whispered back, baring his teeth in what he hoped would pass for a smile. "I know nothing about this."

John's eyes told him that he would like to pursue the point further, but by that time Aunt Lydia was upon them. She took Sherlock's hands into hers, squeezing them significantly.

"I know you wanted me to keep the news a secret, but I was simply so elated when I received the news, that I could not resist telling everyone about it. Please say you will forgive me."

"Yes. Certainly." Sherlock had recovered his poise and his senses well enough to know that he had no choice but to play along with his aunt's outrageous statements.

"So unexpected." Aunt Beryl put in, and Sherlock could feel Aunt Beryl's eyes boring into him.

He forced himself to meet his other aunt's gaze, hoping that she looked adequately calm and in control.

"Yes, wasn't it?" both of the consulting duo jerked their heads to the left, upon hearing the new additional male voice. _God bless the British Government,_ John thought with a sigh.

"I am sure you must be very tired after the journey." Squinting at Sherlock, Mycroft leaned closer and whispered, "Aren't you, brother?"

Sherlock put a hand to his neck. "Yes, I am rather tired." he agreed, catching on and seizing the opportunity to get out of this room. "My-our cabbie got lost."

"How dreadful." Aunt Lydia shook her head. "You must go up to your room and rest." she took his arm, starting toward the door, but Aunt Beryl's voice stopped her.

"Not now, Lydia." Aunt Beryl said in a jovial tone. "We won't allow you to steal Sherlock away like that. Will we, girls? We are simply agog to hear the details of the wedding. It isn't often that something so...unexpected happens. And you must meet Mr. Oglesby and Mr. Thorne."

"What? Who?" Lydia asked vaguely, then turned toward the two young men whom Sherlock did not recognise. "Oh yes, of course." She led Sherlock and John toward the mantel, where cousin Bertram and two young men stood.

As Sherlock followed her reluctantly, the good doctor threw a bewildered glance at Mycroft who merely shrugged and made it clear that he had done what he could and that they were now in it alone.

Sherlock was biting the inside of his cheek painfully. He had no desire to chitchat with strangers. All he wanted was to get his featherbrained aunt alone and find out why she had pushed this outrageous pretence on him.

But Aunt Lydia was rushing on, saying. "Sherlock, Mr. Lassiter, this is Edmund Thorne, a, ah, friend of mine from London. He has been so kind as to visit us the past few weeks."

Mr. Thorne was a stocky young man, with a starched collar so high that he looked as if it might choke him at any moment. His brown hair was arranged in seemingly careless curls that Sherlock suspected he had spent hours getting just so.

He nodded deeply over her hand. "Fair Diana- for Aphrodite, you see, can be no other that her ladyship."

"I beg your pardon?" the detective almost spluttered, making out only the familiar name of his mother.

"But no." the man carried on, putting out a hand dramatically as if to stop something. His other hand went to his brow. "Ah, yes, I see it. But of course- the fair Peresphone. I feel the muse upon me. Lady Marbridge..." Both Holmes brothers flinched upon hearing their mother's true surname. "...is Demeter, so filled with joy at seeing her youngest son again at last-though, of course, no one can believe that the Lady is old enough to be your mother. More a sister."

Beside him John made a strangling noise, which he turned into a cough. Mycroft Holmes raised a questioning eye brow and studied the younger man with such an intensity that seemed to finally silence him.

"Really, Mr. Thorne." Mycroft said dryly. "They would hardly be Demeter and Peresphone then, would they?"

"But such a nice thought, Mr. Thorne," Lydia assured him kindly and practically stepped in front of the older Holmes brother as if to shield Edmund from Mycroft's deadly glare. Turning to Sherlock and John, she added, "Mr. Thorne is a poet, you see."

"Ah." John nodded. "No doubt that explains it."

Only then when his friend had spoken up Sherlock finally took notice of the shorter man's rather protective posture: partly beside and partly in front of him. And when the good doctor started to tap a soothing rhythm on his armpit, Sherlock, was taken aback by the sudden warm emotion that surged through him. Maybe they would somehow survive this evening after all...

"Allow me to introduce Mr. Terence Oglesby." Cousin Bertram began, clearly dismissing the boring subject of Edmund Thorne.

Cousin Bertram was a dandy and it showed. From the top of his hair, coiffed in a style known as Windswept, down to his tasselled boots, he was the very picture of the man of high fashion. While he did not indulge in the most excessive of styles, it was obvious that he considered his clothes as his art.

His companion was dressed in similar finery. However, Terence Oglesby obviously had no need of fine accoutrements in order to be noticed. He was quite simply, the handsomest man that Sherlock had ever seen. Everything about him was golden- his skin, his hair, even the pale sherry brown of his eyes- and his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped figure required no enhancement from his clothes. He smiled, now at Sherlock, and the detective had little doubt that he had entree into many of the best houses of London.

"Have you been here long?" Sherlock inquired politely.

Oglesby merely smiled and turned toward Cousin Bertram, who answered. "Oh, a few weeks now. London's got dreadfully boring, full of hungry mamas pushing their daughters on the Marriage Mart. So Terence and I decided to...rusticate for a while."

Knowing that Bertram lived to be seem, and thrived in the social scene of London, Sherlock had grave doubts about the truthfulness of his explanation. The truth more probably was that his notoriously tightfisted father has cut off his allowance after he plunged too deep at cards or got himself for in debt to the money-lenders.

Accurately reading the speculation in the detective's mind, John handled his arm a bit roughly, as if hinting not to speak anything of it. And so Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, with a light groan, now not having an opportunity to confirm his suspicions.

"Now, stop monopolizing your cousin, Bertie," Aunt Beryl scolded playfully, her mouth stretching in the grimace that she employed as a smile. "Come over here, Sherlock and bring Mr. Lassiter. We want to hear all about the details of the wedding. Don't we?"

Sherlock hesitated, his heart sinking. There was a glint in his aunt's eyes, that told him the woman did not believe that he was married. He could understand why. He knew that he...and John, for the matter, must have looked as if they had been slapped in the face when Lydia called John his husband. What had Lydia been thinking of? Now Aunt Beryl was going to quiz him for all the details of a wedding that he knew nothing about, and Sherlock could not imagine how she was going to invent them without tripping himself up.

Much to his surprise and relief, John reached out an imperious hand and took his arm, stopping him. "No, my dear. I am afraid I must exercise a husband's right and not allow you to indulge in a cozy gossip with your cousins this evening. You are much too tired."

Sherlock turned to him, gaping. He had spoken in the tone of one used to command, and there was on his face a haughty look that brooked no denial. He appeared for all the world as if he were the one born to generations of Holmes, rather than he. The ex-army doctor turned toward Aunt Beryl with an expression of hauteur and faint condescension, that was precisely the attitude that would impress and quell her, no matter how much it might make her bristle with indignation.

"Mrs. Elliot, I look forward to talking with you tomorrow. But right now I must insist that we retire. Sherlock has had a very tiring day, I'm afraid- the exigencies of traveling, you know- and I fear that his constitution is far more delicate than he would like us to believe. No doubt he would, if left to his own devices, weary himself in satisfying your curiosity. Fortunately, he now has a husband to take care of him. And I must insist that he retire for the night."

He smiled benignly at Sherlock, and he shot him back a look that should have wounded. Instead, it only made a small light of suppressed amusement flicker in the shorter man's eyes. The detective would have liked to tell him what he could do with his 'husbandly rights' and his talk of his 'delicate constitution', but right not it suited his own wishes too well to be taken away from Aunt Beryl.

So Sherlock smiled down at him with sickening sweetness and batted his eyes, cooing. "Whatever you say, dearest."

He found his reward in the flummoxed expression that stamped his aunt's face- as well as in the involuntary twitch of John's lips that told him he wanted to laugh at his friend's antics. He had such nice lips, too, Sherlock thought, firm and well cut, with just a hint of sensual fullness in his lower lip. He found himself looking at him for a moment longer than necessary, and only the quizzical look in John's eyes and the sudden voice of his mother, brought him back to his senses and made him turn away.

"Of course, that is most understandable." Diana Holmes spoke in a gentle, but demanding tone, which gave no way to Aunt Beryl's soon coming counters or protests. For good measure she threw the woman a pointed look, a pair of stormy blue eyes, sparkling with keen intelligence through silver strains of hair, then turned to her youngest son. "I have put you and your husband in your old room, Sherlock. I am sure you know the way."

"The same room?" the detective asked rather bluntly, causing John to stiffen, while Mycroft resisted the urge to run a hand over his face.

He stopped as he realized how idiotic his words sounded. Of course husbands would have the same room. He looked at his mother, hoping for a way out, but she was mute, if not a little annoyed.

"Uh, that is...I-I assumed that we would have two rooms...connecting rooms." A flush rose up his face.

"Newlyweds?" Aunt Beryl said and tittered, raising a hand to her mouth. "But my dear, how odd." Her eyes were avid with curiosity.

Sherlock's blush deepened. "Un, well yes. I mean, 'tis not uncommon. There are...well..." the usually well spoken man, stumbled to a halt, casting a desperate look at John.

John, like earlier, took over smoothly. "What my husband is trying to say, is that there are special circumstances. Unusual ones, which make it far better if we have separate rooms." There was a long pause, and then he went on. "In short, I am afraid that Sherlock snores. It makes it very difficult for me to sleep."

Sherlock let out a strangled noise and John turned to him blandly. "Yes, my dear?"

There was a muffled laugh from the direction of Kitty and Amanda, and Cousin Bertram seemed to have suddenly acquired a cough. Sherlock thought with great delight of boxing John's ears. There was nothing he could do or say. He had wanted him to say something to get him out of the dreadful situation; he could hardly deny his words now.

"Oh, my." Aunt Beryl looked from Sherlock to John, and Sherlock could see a flash of triumph in her face as she went on. "But, dear boy separated rooms are rather difficult right now. What with all the guests we have, there is so little space available. Why, to give you two connecting, or even adjoining rooms, we would have to open up the west wing, and you know how your grandfather detests that. And it could not possibly be done tonight. All of the workers are in bed."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could hardly insist, in the face of what Aunt Beryl had said. It was obvious that the woman did not believe the story of a marriage- and that was no wonder. It was all one lie built upon another, and each one more outrageous than the last. He thought about giving up and telling the truth, admitting to his aunt that it had all been a lie. It would be easier than trying to maintain this charade.

But then he thought of his grandfather's happiness when they had told him that he was engaged, and how he would react when he found out it had all been a loe. His disappointment in him would be hard enough to bear, but more than that, his anger and distress might well be enough to call on one of his attacks.

So he clamped back the words that wanted to rise from his throat. Pulling his lips back into a smile, he said. "Of course. It isn't important. John exaggerates sometimes, don't you darling?"

Bidding the others good-night, Sherlock put his hand on John's arm, and they left the room.

* * *

"What the hell is going on here?" John growled at Sherlock, once they were safely out of earshot of the drawing room.

"I don't know." the detective moaned. "Obviously Aunt Lydia must have told them I was married to Mr. Lassiter, but I can not imagine why, what am I going to do?"

"Well, nothing at the moment, except try to act normal. Your Aunt Beryl is suspicious enough. Your carrying on about getting two rooms didn't help any."

"What did you expect me to do?" Sherlock flared. "You're the one constantly repeating your sexual orientation and distress when people mistake you for a gay person. I could only assume that we can't sleep in the same room!"

"No? Then what can we do? Do you want to go back in now and tell Mrs. Elliot that you have made the whole thing up? That I am not your husband? That you never even had a fiancé? That you lied to your grandfather? To her? That your other aunt lied to everyone as well? Do you want her running to spill that load of news to your grandfather?"

The lack of retort and any response from the detective, add to it a disoriented and lost look, made John realize that his friend had, in fact, been considering that option.

"Sherlock, look at me." he told him gently, reaching and putting a hand on the taller man's shoulder. Once their eyes met, he went on. "We have to make the best of it now. At the moment, I think that means being a loving couple. We shall decide how to deal with the rest of it later."

Sherlock nodded evetually, finding it surprising and a tad bit alarming that words as simple as those, could so easily assure and relax him. John Watson smiled fondly at his best friend and took a firm grip on his arm, propelling them across the hall, toward the stairs. "Where is your bedroom? Up here?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but froze instantly as they heard a pair of footsteps from the bottom of the stairs, quickly following them.

**AN: Hope you didn't get too bored with this chapter... not too please with it. There were too many OCs and disgustingly a lot of efforts to give you the general idea of who is who(and I'm rubbish at describing). I did involve a few rare, sweet John/ Sherlock moments, though. For the record this story is not being betaed, so forgive me for some minor errors.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated. Peace.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I still don't own anything.  
**

**Chapter four: Conversations**

"Sherlock! _Psst_!"

Both of them turned to see Lydia at the bottom of the stairs, following them. She waved to Sherlock to stop and hurried up after them.

"Oh, my dear," she cried softly as she neared Sherlock, holding out her hands towards him. "My little love, can you ever forgive me? I am so, so sorry."  
Her big blue eyes were bright with tears, and her flushed face bespoke her agitation. Sherlock took her hands and squeezed them.

"Of course I can forgive you." he assured with a slight grimace at his aunt's words. "Anything. You know that."

Others, such as Aunt Beryl, called Lydia a "fribble," and Sherlock had often enough bemoaned his aunt's vague, haphazard ways, but there was no one with a warmer heart and Sherlock knew it.

"Thank you. You don't know how that relieves me. I was worried that you would hate me."

"I could never hate you." Sherlock took her arm and led her down to his bedroom, John following behind them. "But I don't understand what is going on. Why did you say he was my husband?"

They reached the door of Sherlock's bedroom and walked inside. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and a lamp was lit, giving the room a soft golden glow.

"It was terribly bad of me," Lydia caught her lower lip between her teeth, "If I had only thought about it, I would have realised it might cause trouble. But I simply could not stand it anymore. You know how Beryl is."

"Well, I don't," John put in bluntly. "My good woman, what are you talking about?"

"Why, the reason I said you were Sherlock's husband. It was because of Beryl. She was driving me quite mad- all those sly digs and innuendos. She was convinced from the start that it was folderol, though how she could tell, I'm sure I don't know. Your letters sounded so convincing that sometimes even I thought that you really had gotten engaged."

At the moment John looked as if he had been smacked on the head with a brick. So someone besides Mother Holmes and Mycroft knew about the whole affair, but he kept silent as the woman went on.

"But she would make remarks in that insinuating voice of hers- You know what I mean. So vastly irritating. Your uncle Varian always used to say he wanted to pinch her lips shut whenever she began to talk that way."

"Yes, Aunt," Sherlock said, trying to bring her back on track. "But what happened this time?"

"She kept saying why you were so vague about your wedding plans. She said it didn't sound natural for a soon to be married person. And I can quite understand why you wouldn't think of putting things like that in your letters, my love, since you have no interest in marrying. I should have thought of it, for that is exactly how I was when Varian and I were engaged, always talking about my dress and flowers and-"

"Mrs. Elliot..." John reminded her flatly.

"Oh. Well, one day she said, in that silly jesting way of hers, right there in front of the Holmes'- I am positive she meant to do it that way- that she thought you had made the whole thing up, although I'm certain that's what she wished to say, for she knows that the Holmes won't listen to her speak an ill word about you. That is why she always couches her statements in that pseudo-laughing way. But she said that she thought you must be getting cold feet, and she reminded him how you had always been so set against marriage. 'So unnatural in a man that age.'" Lydia imitated her in-law's drawn-out vowels and nasal tone to perfection, even adding the way Aunt Beryl had of lifting her chin and stroking down her throat.

Sherlock had to chuckle. "So you, of course, decided to tell her that I had already married."

"I didn't mean to. But she was looking at me in that way, you know, and I opened my mouth and somehow it just came out. I told her that I had got a letter from you, and that you and your Mr. Lassiter had gotten married two weeks ago."

Sherlock let out a low groan.  
"I'm sorry Sherlock, but once I'd done it, what could I do? I didn't think it would do any harm. And it was so pleasant to see Beryl sitting there with her mouth opening and closing." She paused, then added, a trifle resentfully, "I never dreamed you would actually bring a man with you. I thought you would arrive by yourself, with some excuse why Mr. Lassiter could not come. And since we would only be talking about him, what difference would it make whether he was your fiancé or husband?"

"Of course," John agreed. "A mere trifle."

Lydia smiled at him, pleased by his understanding, and said, "Exactly. I am so glad to hear you say so." She turned to Sherlock. "Where did you find him? I don't understand how you managed to come up with him."

"I paid him." Sherlock told her bluntly and let out an indignant yelp as John pinched his side in response.

Lydia's eyes widened, obviously believing the joke. "You mean you can buy a husband?"

"Actually, he only bought a fiancé," John stuck in, struggling to keep a straight face. "Now that I am a _husband_, perhaps I should charge more. What do you think, Sherlock?"

"Frankly, I can see your point, John. It's true that I have purchased a husband, but let's not forget that it will also require you to fulfil some of the husbandly responsibilities..."

The pair of them kept this on, until Aunt Lydia's eyes couldn't have got any larger and her mouth was almost reaching the floor. Soon they took pity on the woman, who looked about to have a heart attack and revealed that they were, in fact, good( best) friends and had known each other for quite a while. Of course Aunt Lydia was immensely relieved to learn that his dear Sherlock had not indulged himself into the whole pretending business with some strange man, God knew from where, but she was still rather cross that the two of them had tried to fool her.

_("But Aunt Lydia, I think this is precisely the time for humour." He turned back to his aunt. "I didn't mean it quite like that...The truth is that I only paid him to pretend to be my fiancé."  
_

_"Sherlock!"  
_

_"See? John's nothing but acting his part. And very splendidly I might say.")_

Soon with a short good night, Aunt Lydia made her way out of Sherlock's bedroom and for the first time since they had entered the room, John became aware of it-the soft light, the intimate setting... the large, postered bed that dominated the room. He swallowed hard before a deep rumbling chuckle made him turn away in the direction of the window where his friend was positioned.

"Don't worry, John." Sherlock said, a teasing smile, playing on his lips. "I give you my word that I will not seduce you or force you, if that's what's bothering you."

John rolled his eyes, but grinned in response. "Very thoughtful of you, but what will you- I mean, _where_ will we sleep?"

"You will take the bed obviously." he said and held up a hand at John's attempt to protest. "Bad shoulder remember? I'll take the couch."

John agreed eventually and stared vacantly at the glistening fire from the fireplace while the detective resumed to investigate out of the window.

"So how are we gonna continue this?" the good doctor asked after a while, effectively catching the other's attention. "Are we gonna stick to plain lies or something?"

"Ordinary is the most believable," Sherlock pointed out. "Not to mention the easiest. Why don't we tell them that we were in love, but you were promised to another and then this fictitious girl broke it off, and you and I were free to marry? Because of my grandfather, we decided to get married without delay, knowing how it would please him."

"Alright." John nodded and turned away, hoping that they would wrap it in for the night as he was feeling rather tired after all of the anthem that took place that day. Obviously his friend had other plans.

"John." he called weakly, a strange hesitance showing in his gaze. "I-I didn't mean to cause you any trouble... I had no idea that Lydia would so profoundly slip up. If only I had known about it sooner... I would never expect you to..."

"Hey, stop right there." John said quickly, walking back to the detective. "If you think that I am blaming you or am angry with you, then you're an even bigger idiot than I have originally thought. You may be paying me money, and it may be your idiotic little story that we're playing out here..." he dropped his teasing matter as soon as he noticed the unusually pained expression on Sherlock's face. "But I am in this thing, like it or not, and as long as I am, I plan to make sure that it goes as smoothly and cleanly as possible."

Sherlock drew in his breath sharply, but John put his hand over his lips.

"No. Hear me out. If you have any sense at all, which is something I rather doubt about your aunt Lydia, then you saw tonight that Mrs. Elliot did not believe your story. I am undecided about the dandy and the other two men- though I cannot believe that anyone could be quite as foolish as that poet fellow..." he said with a grimace and Sherlock smiled against the palm of John's hand still pressed firmly against his mouth. The good doctor, as if only noticing the location of his hand, drew it away quickly and cleared his throat, before going on.

"The important thing is that your aunt does not believe you. And unless I am gravely in error, she would like nothing more than to prove to your grandfather that you are lying. So it is up to us to make sure that she doesn't have an opportunity to do so."

Sherlock's expression remained mostly unreadable, but there was something warm and undeniably grateful in the way he kept gazing at his shorter friend, which had John feeling remarkably chuffed.

"Aunt Lydia is not a bad woman." the detective said after a while, changing the theme.

"I'm sure she's a wonderful woman," John replied disinterestedly. "She is also feather headed."

"You don't even know her." Sherlock challenged, raising an elegant brow at him.

"One doesn't need to know her. It's obvious. Only a nincompoop would have told Mrs. Elliot you were married, knowing that you weren't even really engaged."

"I thought it was really clever of her to give us that hint, though, when we first came in the drawing room."

"It would have been more clever to have waylaid you before you reached the room and told you the whole of it. At least that way you wouldn't have looked like a landed trout when she called me your husband."

"You are the most insulting man I have ever met, John. You know that?"

"No doubt. But that has nothing to do with what we're talking about."

"It certainly does. I don't want Aunt Beryl to think that I actually married someone as boorish as you."

"Tell her I have lots of money. That always makes up for a great deal of boorishness. Besides, just think how pleasant it will be when you can tell everyone that I have died."

"Perhaps we could arrange an accident tomorrow," Sherlock said pointedly and John couldn't help it anymore. He laughed and a smile flashed briefly across the detective's face.

Sherlock turned away. He went to the window and pushed aside the drapes, gazing down into the moon-washed garden below. "How can you do this?" he asked slowly. "How can you pretend to be married when you have such a view of women?"

John was silent for a moment, then said. "Well, you're my friend...and that's what friends do. Help each other out..."

"I don't mean _why_ did you agree. I meant, how could it be possible for you to act like a married man, feeling as you do?"

He looked into Sherlock's eyes and there was a long silence. "I can remember." His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "I can remember the fool I was before..." _Before your infatuating self has bloody well came back from the dead, before my only anchor was Mary...my sweet, lovely Mary, before everything wasn't so bloody messed up._

Something about his voice sent a sympathetic pain through Sherlock's chest, but he decided not to comment on the tense his friend had used or what that could possibly mean.

"You must love her very much." he said instead, their conversation breaking off there for the night.

**AN: I decided to end the chapter here, not only because I'm an evil person, but also I decided to try out something called 'character building'. A grand thank you to every one who's sticking around this fic(I'm reading all of your reviews and am very thankful for them even if sometimes I don't have time/forget to reply.) and so sorry for the delay, I've been awfully busy as of lately. Hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently from now on. Thank you.**


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